On the Outside
by Faye Dartmouth
Summary: He doesn’t know the name of the motel. He doesn’t know what city he’s in. He just knows the night is edging toward its climax and his only goal is to hold on until morning. Tag to 5.02.


Title: On the Outside

Summary: He doesn't know the name of the motel. He doesn't know what city he's in. He just knows the night is edging toward its climax and his only goal is to hold on until morning. Tag to 5.02.

A/N: This was about the most heartbreaking ep ever. At first I didn't think I had a tag in mind, but Brenna asked and it IS her birthday, so this little vignette is for her. And for Sam. Who desperately needs something right now, and I wish there was something more hopeful I could write for him. Thanks to geminigrl11 for the fast beta.

Disclaimer: Not mine. If they were, I would take Sam away and take care of him until he believed in himself again.

-o-

_And I lie_

_Here in bed_

_All alone_

_I can't mend _

-from "Colors" by Staind

-o-

Sam is in a motel bed. It's hot, but Sam leaves the windows closed and the air conditioner off. He covers himself with the sheet and folds the comforter down. He lies on his back and stares at the ceiling as the seconds pass by.

He doesn't know the name of the motel. He doesn't know what city he's in. He just knows the night is edging toward its climax and his only goal is to hold on until morning.

He fills his days with hitchhiking and research. He coops up in the back of libraries and the corner booths of rundown diners. He pores over texts as though he's looking for an answer, but all he's looking for is another way to pass the time.

Because there are no answers for Sam to find. There's just more failure. More loss and devastation that are _all Sam's fault_.

He tries to eat, but everything tastes like ash, and he finds himself craving the bitter tang of blood. Sometimes the hunger pulls so deep that it seems to burn through his veins with every beat of his heart until he finds himself leaned over the toilet, retching with dry heaves. But he can't throw it up. It's there, inside of him, and it always will be there, and he has no way to deal with that.

He tries to focus, but every task seems too important for someone like him to tackle, and he finds himself torn between the power to make a difference and the knowledge that it's a power he cannot trust himself to use.

The days fade into nights, and Sam sleeps in motel rooms only to keep himself away from other people. Locked up in four walls with the bolt sealed tight is the only thing that seems right anymore. He lays lines of salt and blesses the walls, not to keep things out, but to keep himself in.

It's supposed to be a journey to discover himself, to find his own value, to _believe _in his own worth again.

There's just one problem: he knows who he is. He knows that he wasted his own value by trusting a demon and destroying the world. He believes that he forfeited his own worth the day he turned his back on his brother.

There is nothing left.

No research will make a difference. No lives saved will change the result. Sam failed. Sam failed and he's damned for it, now and always.

Dean said it himself: he can't trust Sam. It can never be the way it was. He's holding Dean back--the great irony of that. Dean offered him the Impala because Dean doesn't need the Impala any more than he needs the amulet. Anymore than he needs Sam.

The world is a scary place, full of evil and wrong, and Sam knows now he can trust one thing and one thing only. Not the angels, not the demons, not even himself, but Dean.

Dean believes Sam can't be trusted.

Dean's right.

Dean believes Sam isn't worth fighting for.

Dean's right.

Dean believes that Sam's not useful to the cause.

Dean's _right_.

There is a finality to that that Sam can't fight. He won't fight. Sam's done with demon blood. Sam's done with hunting. Sam's done hoping Dean will see him as someone better than he is. Sam's just _done_.

In the lonely shadows of the motel room, sleep never comes, and Sam thinks about the few weapons he took from the Impala. He left the knife for Dean, but he has a blade. He has a pistol and he still has a shotgun and enough rounds to make it count for one last hunt.

Sam wonders. How easy it would be to end it. How easy it would be to just get it over. It's been a week and Dean hasn't called, and Sam trusts that the fight is too important for Dean to come for him, even if he did find out. There would be no crying over Sam's body. There would be no deals to make. Just the sense that this was over. Maybe that Sam screwed up one last time.

The thought makes Sam want to smile. Suicide is selfish; this much is true. But at this point, after everything, Sam knows he has nothing left to lose. He's made his worst mistake. Anything else can only be an improvement.

He holds onto this dream until daybreak, and then he sits up in bed, and starts his penance once again.


End file.
